Death by Silver (20 page)

“Oh, can’t I?”

“Well, I can’t.” Ned took a determined bite of his chop.

“He bullied anyone he thought he could get away with,” Julian said. “He knocked you about, beat you bloody –”

“We were schoolboys. “ Ned didn’t look up from his plate. “It was years ago. Only a fool and a weakling would let it bother him now.”

Julian sat back as though he’d been slapped. If that was what Ned believed –

“If I withdraw – Hatton’s a good man, but he’s got other cases to worry about,” Ned went on, heedless. “And Carruthers won’t be the slightest bit of help. Victor wants it to be that poor mouse of a maid, and everyone else wants it to be a burglar, and no one seems to care that someone in that house is a murderer. And I’m damn sure that if I don’t find out who did it, it’s just a matter of time before he decides to solve another problem exactly the same way. And that death will be on my conscience.” He fixed Julian with a sudden fierce glare. “Tell me I’m wrong.”

“I can’t,” Julian said, after a moment. “I think you’re right. And you know I’ll help you. Any way I can.”

“Thank you.” Ned blinked hard at the remains of his meal.

Julian took a careful breath. “I had a word with my friend Bolster today. I asked him about Ellis’s mission.”

“Oh, yes?” Ned still didn’t look up, but his voice was steadier.

“He gives it a good name, which I admit surprised me.” He went on for a bit, repeating Bolster’s information, and was pleased to see Ned relax enough to finish most of his dinner. He debated suggesting brandy, but Ned still looked a little gray. As if to prove it, he shook his head at the waiter’s offer of a pudding, and refused the cheese as well. They paid their bills in silence, collected their hats, and threaded their way through the tables to the door. If it had been a normal evening, Julian would have invited him home, but the shadow of their last meeting still hung over him.

“I’ll walk back with you, shall I?” he said instead, and Ned nodded.

“By all means. Have a brandy with me, if you’d like.”

“Yes,” Julian said.

It wasn’t far to Ned’s lodgings, a neat, well-kept house with the steps freshly washed and the trim newly painted and the curtains stiff and clean in every window. Ned let them into his parlor without attracting his landlady’s attention, and stripped off hat and coat before turning to the decanter. Julian took the offered glass, and, after a moment’s hesitation, joined Ned on the sofa, sitting scrupulously at the opposite end. Mrs Clewett had opened the window to catch the evening breeze, and the air was cool and pleasant.

“Did Corinthian win?” Julian asked, not quite at random, and Ned looked up frowning.

“What?”

“The horse, the one in the agony column. Did it win?”

Ned laughed softly. “Only you would refer to the 9-5 favorite in the Mayor’s Plate as ‘that horse in the agony column.’ Yes, he won. And I think you were right, it was someone laying off his bets. There was a rumor that Macgregor had gotten himself in trouble over bets he took before Corinthian won the ’Cap, but he paid out all right.”

Julian sipped his brandy, drawing out the conversation, and Ned seemed glad to talk about horses and cricket, shifting on the cushions to sketch out various clever plays until they were sitting almost side by side. Their glasses were empty, too, and Julian rose to his feet without being asked, fetched the decanter to refill them. He settled closer to Ned this time, and put a cautious arm around his shoulders. For an instant, he thought Ned would pull away, but then he sighed, and rested his head against Julian’s shoulder.

“God, it’s been a day.”

Julian patted his shoulder, afraid of breaking the mood with the wrong word. Ned closed his eyes, sprawling comfortably, and Julian shifted again to take his weight. They sat that way for a bit, the light fading, and finally Ned said softly, “It wasn’t that bad, you know. It’s nothing to take account of now.”

Julian closed his lips tightly over several things he might have said. Instead, he gave Ned’s shoulders a quick squeeze, and sat up. “You should go to bed.”

Ned blinked at him. “I suppose I ought.”

“And I should go home,” Julian said. “I’m meeting Wynchcombe in the morning to deal with his automaton.”

“Ah. Yes.” Ned pushed himself to his feet. “I’ll let you out, then.”

“Thanks.” Julian collected himself, shrugging on coat and hat, and followed Ned down the front stairs. In the dark of the hall, Ned fumbled for a moment with the latch, and Julian dared to touch his cheek. He wanted rather desperately to kiss him, but that was too great a risk.

“Good night, Ned,” he said instead, and headed out into the street. The omnibuses were still running on the Tottenham Court Road; if he hurried, and didn’t look back, he’d be home in plenty of time.

“All right,” Ned said, putting his feet up on the visitor’s chair. It was just after nine, and most prospective clients weren’t energetic enough to begin the business day that early. “Let’s think this through.”

The quickest way to be done with the Nevett case was to solve it, and that was what he was determined to do. The only way was to approach it like any other professional problem, to be untangled patiently and with as much of a will as he could manage. He was a grown man and a trained professional, although it was troubling how often lately he’d felt the need to reassure himself of both.

Miss Frost at least seemed enthusiastic about talking the case through. He had been a bit concerned that she’d be squeamish about being involved with a murder investigation, but she seemed to find it more diverting than her usual tasks.

“It must have been someone who was in the house at dinnertime,” he went on. “Of the people who were there – the servants, the family, and the dinner guests – we still don’t know which of them had reason to kill Nevett. I’m getting the impression that none of them were on very good terms with him, but presumably only one of them did it.”

“Unless they were in it together,” Miss Frost said.

“It’s hard to imagine any of them cooperating that long,” Ned said. “Victor and Mrs Victor, maybe. And Mrs Nevett seems fond of Freddie. But frankly right now it’s all guesswork.”

“You don’t think it was the girl?”

“It seems hard to credit, for any number of reasons.” Ned shook his head. “But it’s all murky. Let’s consider a different question. Who
could
have done it? Either it was someone who knew enough metaphysics to work out how to do it and then perform the enchantment, or there’s a professional involved.”

“There are kits and the like,” Miss Frost said doubtfully.

“Not with handy curses for murdering your relations written out, or at least I hope not. I’ve seen traps for burglars, and I suppose you could do something with that, but to modify one to kill Nevett and only Nevett… no, it won’t do. You’d need to know as much metaphysics to turn a burglar-trap to your purposes as you would to simply enchant the thing yourself. More, possibly.”

“Could any of them have done it on their own?”

“I can’t imagine either Victor or Reggie coming up with it out of their heads,” Ned said. “We learned a bit at Toms’, but mostly theory – they didn’t want us experimenting on one another, strangely enough. And I doubt either of them touched the stuff once they went up to Oxford. They were out to pass, and that was all. Freddie took a third in something, I think, but it certainly wasn’t metaphysics.” He shook his head. “I can’t see any of them doing it without consulting a professional.”

Her eyebrows went up. “Who provided them with an enchantment for murder?”

“It might not have been that straightforward. Lessons, maybe, or maybe they got the pieces of it and managed to put it together – yes, that’s dicey, but there’s such a thing as beginner’s luck.” Ned shrugged. “But I don’t think we can rule it out entirely, can we? There are chemists who’ve sold poisons and solicitors who’ve forged wills.”

“You don’t think it could have been one of
us
,” Miss Frost said, and for the first time she looked a little taken aback. “Not a member of the Commons, or any of the clerks, surely?”

“More likely some back-alley charlatan, but it’s worth ruling out,” Ned said. “I expect the pageboys might remember if any of the Nevetts have been seen about in recent weeks.”

“They see a lot of clients.”

“Yes, but they remember names; it’s their job to recognize our regulars. For those of us who have regulars. And they’d certainly remember a lady.”

“I expect they would,” she said, although she still sounded a bit skeptical.

It was, at least, a place to start. He went to track down the various pageboys who ran errands for the Commons, armed with a pocket full of pennies to jog their memories. By the end of the morning, though, he had to admit defeat.

No one remembered seeing any of the Nevetts besides Victor, and the only occasion anyone could remember seeing Victor was when he’d come to consult Ned. The few ladies they’d seen in the week before the murder were regular clients or wives of Commons members, all well-known to the boys, with the exception of one white-haired old woman and one ginger-haired woman with a baby in arms

“Do you want me to tell you if I do see any Nevetts, then?” Bob asked, one hand held out as if hoping another penny would materialize.

“I do, actually,” Ned said, dispensing another penny on the off chance that it would be useful. “Or Mr Ellis. And you can run round and tell Miss Frost that I’m off to the Mission for the Education of the Employable Poor.”

The place was as Julian had described it, an old brick house overshadowed by the warehouse behind it, with what looked like space for a narrow yard between, although it couldn’t get much sun. The neighborhood was a shabby one, and his clothes drew looks that might have been either hostile or speculative. It wasn’t one he’d care to linger in after dark, at least not dressed as he was.

He knocked briskly at the front door, handing over his card to the maid who went to announce him and trying to gather his thoughts as he waited for her to return. The trick would be to persuade them that his intentions weren’t indecent, he thought, and wondered if it might not be better to start by asking after Sarah’s brother. He was still trying to figure out how to phrase his inquiries when the girl returned.

“I’m afraid there’s no one who’s free to see you, Mr Mathey.”

“I’m happy to wait,” Ned said.

“I’m afraid you won’t find anyone free, sir,” the girl said, and shut the door firmly between them.

Ned let out an exasperated breath. Ellis was there, then, or had been there before him and told the schoolmasters that Mr Mathey wasn’t to be admitted. He supposed it was to the man’s credit that he was protective of his charges, but under the circumstances it was also intensely frustrating.

He considered the schoolyard, and his chances of speaking to a pupil, but there was no way in without passing through gates that were likely to be locked, and he’d be a sinister and conspicuous figure even if he scaled the wall. Not that it wouldn’t be conspicuous to start with to climb schoolyard walls in his frock coat and top hat.

What he needed was someone who wouldn’t look as painfully out of place as he did. He took a cab back to the Commons, hoping that Victor Nevett did intend to pay his expenses as agreed, given the amount he was spending in cab fare, and hunted up Bob again.

He found the boy in the cramped room belowstairs that the pageboys used as their retreat; it was cluttered with tin dinner pails and reading material of various kinds. Some dog-eared books on metaphysics had made their way down there, and the boys were encouraged to make use of their free time in improving reading, but he saw more picture papers in evidence, as well as the familiar pink sheets of the
Sporting Times
.

Bob scrambled up. “It’s my dinner break, sir,” he said, offering the slab of bread and butter in his hand as evidence. “Ollie and Frank ought to be upstairs.” He was a skinny boy, his hair curling in unruly directions despite being closely cropped.

“I’m not scolding,” Ned said. “I’ve an errand that I need run, a bit out of the usual way. There’s a shilling in it for you, though, and another if you can find out what I need to know.”

The boy’s eyes lit. “Is it about the murder, sir?”

Ned supposed that it was common knowledge that he’d taken on a murder case, and was getting the impression that it made him something of a celebrity belowstairs. “In a roundabout way. I need you to go to the Mission for the Education of the Employable Poor, on Gill Street, at some time when you’re free. Go round to the kitchen door, and tell them you’ve a letter for Bill Doyle, who was a student there.”

“Where’s the letter?”

“There isn’t a letter. But see if you can find out an address for him. It’s likely he’s gone into service. If they say they don’t know, don’t let them fetch one of the teachers. Take your leave, and then see if you can hang round the schoolyard gate and ask one of the students instead.”

“The other boys would be more likely to know to start with, wouldn’t they?”

“Maybe, but you may find some of the students or former students working in the kitchen to start with. It’s the sort of school that trains you up for service. I’ll let you use your own judgment. Just get me an address if you can, and don’t say I sent you.”